


The Mill

by cofax



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, gratuitous angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation, bitter weeping; Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted for her children, because they were not.</i>  Jeremiah 31:15-17.</p><p>Posted October 2000.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mill

_1:17 p.m.  
November 6_

He found her in the third church.

Saint Aidan's was a small neighborhood church, abutted, as so  
many were, by the brick walls of its affiliated grammar school.  
A multi-colored swirl of children raced across the fenced  
playground, their squeals cutting across Mulder's mind like  
knives.

The main door was unlocked. Mulder edged the heavy slab of oak  
open a few inches and slipped inside. There was nothing in  
the entry hall but some old church bulletins and the holy water  
font. On a corkboard, a yellow flyer advertised a pancake  
breakfast and silent auction. Through the glass doors Mulder saw  
candles glimmering softly on the altar. The overhead lights were  
dim.

He moved towards the inner doors, but before his outstretched  
hand reached the handle, the door was thrust open from inside.  
An older man stumbled through the doorway and careened into  
Mulder. Mulder grabbed him by the arms and steadied him, and not  
until he felt the smooth catch of silk under his fingers did he  
identify the man as a priest.

The man opened his mouth once, twice, but said nothing. His pale  
hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Mulder shook him  
gently, then opened his hands and touched one finger to the  
purple stole around the priest's neck.

"Is she here?" His voice was so soft, he could hardly hear  
himself.

The priest nodded rapidly several times. A droplet of sweat ran  
down his nose and dripped onto the immaculate silk of his  
cassock. He waved vaguely in the direction of the altar. "She -  
\- she's in there. I -- um, I don't know --"

Mulder flipped his badge at the priest, then pressed a business  
card into the man's sticky palm. "Give me ten minutes, then call  
this number and ask for Assistant Director Skinner. Tell him  
I've found her."

He went through the doors without waiting for an answer.

***

_August 18_

It was an evening in late summer, one of those nights that was so  
balmy that only the truly delusional spent them inside instead of  
counting fireflies and swatting mosquitoes in the soft air.  
Mulder was in the office. Scully had had a dentist's appointment  
late in the day and hadn't returned to work afterwards. It was  
after eight o'clock but thin rose light still filtered through  
the high windows on the rear wall. When there was a soft knock  
at the door, Mulder swiveled his chair toward the door without  
removing his eyes from the file before him.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, Mulder. You got a moment?"

Mulder put a finger on the text to hold his place and turned his  
head. The filtered light of the basement office shimmered off  
Jerry O'Connor's ever-growing forehead as he hesitated in the  
doorway. O'Connor's voice was as hesitant as his manner,  
although Mulder remembered him as one of the more competent and  
stable staff members in BSU.

"Sure, Jerry." Mulder waved him to a chair. Instead O'Connor  
came around the edge of the desk and dropped a file into his  
hands.

With an inquiring glance at Jerry's face, Mulder flipped the  
folder open. Inside were crime scene photos and forensic  
reports, detailing the death by carbon monoxide poisoning of a  
five-year-old girl. Mulder raised a brow and flipped to the  
front of the file. Teresa Campbell had died three months ago,  
and her death had been determined by Silver Spring police to be  
an accident.

So. Jerry wouldn't be here if this was all there was. "Another  
death?"

O'Connor nodded and handed him another file. This one was brand  
new, the edges of the manila folder not yet softened by handling.  
Jeffrey Sullivan had also died from carbon monoxide poisoning,  
three days ago, in Georgetown. This time there were enough  
anomalies for the DC police to consider it a possible homicide,  
and it was being investigated as such.

Both kids were about five years old, both had fine light hair,  
but other than that there were few similarities. Jeffrey  
Sullivan was a chubby child; the photo in the file showed him  
perched on top of a pony at a birthday party, his face fixed with  
fear. Teresa Campbell's photo was a softball picture, her tanned  
face grinning cheerfully at the camera from under a cap. On the  
flip side of the photo were her stats: Age 5, height 3'10",  
weight 45 lbs, position shortstop.

Mulder put the pictures of the two children on the desk in front  
of him. After a long moment, he looked up at O'Connor.

"You think there's a connection?" He didn't see it, not after  
only a glance at the files.

O'Connor nodded vigorously and pulled up a chair next to Mulder.  
"I'm sure of it. But I need you to help me find it."

***

_1:20 p.m.  
November 6_

Mulder eased the door carefully shut behind him. At first glance  
the church was empty, the soft light of the candles rippling on  
the old wooden pews. The altar at the head of the church was  
covered with a long white cloth, stained faintly pink by the red  
lantern behind the altar. He wanted to ask her how she could  
come here, after all that had happened, but he doubted she would  
be able to answer him.

The church was warm; Mulder shrugged out of his overcoat and  
threw it over the nearest bench. He moved forward, stepping  
softly down the main aisle. He saw Scully finally, a dark figure  
slumped mid-way down the pew. Her hands were up over her face,  
and she was perched on the edge of the pew with her knees on the  
cushioned bench below.

She didn't move as he slid down the row toward her. She was  
speaking rapidly, each word barely escaping her mouth before  
another followed it. Prayers, he realized.

"Hailmaryfullofgracethelordiswiththeeblessed  
artthoughamongwomenandblessedisthefruitofthy  
wombjesusHolymarymotherofgodprayforus  
sinnersnowandinthehour--"

He couldn't see her face. Despite the heat in the church, she  
had not removed her overcoat. It was stained and muddy at the  
bottom; she must have walked a long way. Her hands were white  
with pressure, forcing her fingertips against her eyes.

Mulder closed his own eyes rather than keep watching her. Oh  
mill, what hast thou ground?

***

_September 22_

They entered the office together, both slinging briefcases onto  
desks: one with a thump and a scatter of paperwork, the other  
with a quiet sigh. The Wisconsin case had been fascinating but  
exhausting. It was after five on a Friday and all Mulder wanted  
to do was check his e-mail, go home, and sleep late into the  
morning.

As he powered up his computer and struggled out of his coat, he  
heard Scully sorting through paperwork behind him. Outlook  
slowly expanded to fill the screen with the dozens of notices the  
Bureau felt necessary to keep all division chiefs informed. He  
glanced at Scully to see her stuff some papers into an accordion  
folder and slide the entire pile into her briefcase.

"Leaving so soon?"

She slung the bag over her shoulder. "Yeah. I need to get to  
the dry-cleaners. I picked up a nasty stain on my overcoat and  
they're not open on Saturdays."

The most recent message was from Jerry O'Connor. "Urgent" it  
said, with a red exclamation point next to the subject line.  
Mulder frowned; he had given his preliminary profile to Jerry  
just before they left for Wisconsin on Monday. What had  
happened?

Another death. Katie Somerville's body had been discovered three  
hours ago, as Mulder and Scully had caught their connection at  
O'Hare. While they had raced to the next terminal, dodging  
anonymous wheeled suitcases, the Alexandria PD had been snapping  
shots of the body of Katie Somerville, found curled as if  
sleeping in a long-abandoned tree house six blocks away from her  
home. She had been missing for five days.

"I thought you were going right home?" Scully was paused at the  
door, her hand on the knob.

"Hm?" Something was very off about this one. According to  
Mulder's analysis, the killer should not have moved again so  
quickly. He was going to have to revisit the profile.

"Mulder. Home. Bed. Sleep."

"Oh, yeah. I'll leave soon. Something's just come up on that  
case in BSU . . . "

"Oh?" There was a pause. "Okay then. Mulder."

"Yeah?" Something in her voice made him turn toward the door.  
She flashed him a smile.

"Have a good weekend, Mulder."

"You too, Scully." By the time the soft chime of the elevator  
sounded, he was pulling files up from the archives, looking for  
something to explain this discrepancy.

***

_1:31 p.m.  
November 6_

He gave her a minute, but they didn't have much time. Skinner  
wasn't going to wait; this was too sensitive to screw up. As it  
was, the Bureau was in for a hard time, and the press would  
pillory Skinner. Mulder tried not to think about what Scully was  
going to go through.

Mulder leaned against her, telling her with his warmth and his  
presence that she wasn't alone. "Scully . . ."

"No." The word was clear behind her muffling hands. Mulder felt  
her start to shake, her shoulder twitching against his.

"Scully--" This time he raised his voice a little more. They  
were running out of time, and he had to connect with her before  
the task force arrived. This might be his last chance for a long  
time.

"I have to -- I have to finish ---" Her words were whispered,  
desperate, but her body had begun to shudder now, and Mulder  
spotted a drop of liquid sparkling on her chin below the heel of  
her hands.

Enough. He had to see her face. Gently but firmly, he pulled  
Scully's hands away from her face, and shifted around until he  
could see her as clearly as possible in the shadowed church.  
Then he wished he hadn't.

Even in the very worst of times, even during the cancer, or after  
Pfaster, she hadn't looked like this. Her eyes were wide, wide;  
he could almost see fissures opening as he watched. Her skin was  
so pale, her hands so cold. Something else he recognized in her  
face, something Mulder saw in the mirror at far-too-frequent  
intervals.

Leper outcast unclean.

It's true, then, he thought. He hadn't accepted it until now.

 

***

_11:15 a.m.  
November 6_

"Scully." Her voice was curt, and Mulder blinked a little in  
surprise. She had been quite agreeable when he'd called her last  
night with his request. Remarkably so, really, given that she  
always hated any cases where children were victims. Not that he  
could blame her; children were the worst, and the closer to the  
holidays these cases happened, the less she liked them.

He shifted in his chair. He'd been up since four a.m., and had  
slept only for a few hours, hours snatched on the cot in the  
storage room down the hall. He wondered sometimes if the  
janitors knew he crashed there, and whether they cared. He  
stretched, trying to work out the kinks in his back without  
actually getting out of the chair.

"Have you found anything?"

"Not really. I've compared it to the report on Katie Somerville,  
however, and the killer's methodology has definitely changed."

"Because he used chloroform and a knife this time."

"Not just that. This death was much faster. I think the killer  
was in a hurry."

Mulder sighed. What had changed? His brain was functioning more  
slowly than he'd like it to. This morning he'd visited the  
Augsberger household, where yesterday five-year-old Timothy had  
been found by his parents dead in the backyard. He'd been out of  
sight for no more than twenty minutes and in fact they'd thought  
him still in the sandbox.

He was in the sandbox, but he was dead.

"The only thing that's changed, Scully, is the press leak. He  
knows we're watching for him." For the thirtieth time in the  
past four days, Mulder cursed the moron who had talked to that  
reporter. Saturday's Washington Times had run a banner headline  
about the "Washington Child Killer". The emergency press  
conference had been one of the least pleasant moments in his FBI  
career.

"Yeah," she said, but her voice was dubious, and somewhat  
distant. "So, did you get anything at the crime scene?"

"Actually, we did. We lifted a set of prints from the brim of  
his baseball cap. They're very small, they might be the  
mother's, but ..."

There was a long silence. He heard some clinking sounds through  
the phone. "Scully?"

"I don't know, Mulder." He could hear her thinking; he knew the  
expression on her face as she tried to fit the puzzle pieces this  
way, then that. "I just -- why assume this killer is a man?"

"Because most of them are." But he knew as he said it that was a  
stupid reason. There was no evidence of sexual abuse or other  
torture. No indication one way or another as to the gender of  
the killer. Statistics were just statistics, and couldn't be  
relied upon exclusively . . . he should have caught that before  
making that assumption, dammit.

No abuse. Painless deaths. He sat up in the chair, letting his  
feet drop to the floor. Perhaps . . . perhaps this was not a  
crime of abuse, but a crime of salvation. Like Gerry Schnauzz,  
perhaps the killer was saving the victims, saving them from  
horrors only he, or she, could see. That would require an  
entirely different approach to the profile; he was going to have  
to scratch it all and start again from the beginning --

"Mulder?"

He caught his breath. The last time he had heard that note in  
her voice they had been huddled on an ice field.

"Yeah? Scully, are you okay?"

"I know why they died."

"What? What did you find?" Trust Scully to find something any  
other pathologist would miss.

Her voice was soft and uncertain. "He was alone in the backyard.  
He would have thought she was safe, a teacher, a babysitter.  
Women aren't dangerous, and she would be pretty, soft, maybe  
smell nice -- maybe he would walk right up to her -- "

Mulder raised a brow. He knew Scully could profile, and she'd  
done it on several other cases. But it was usually far less  
intuitive and stream-of-consciousness than this. "That makes a  
lot of sense, Scully. Have you found some evidence on the victim  
to support it?"

There was a long pause.

"Oh, God."

He had never heard her like this. It was as if the words were a  
body that had been dragged to shore over water-sharpened coral,  
and emerged bleeding.

"Oh, God, Mulder. I know how they died. I can see it. He was  
on the swing set and they were at the front and you could just  
tell he was one of them. That red hair, the right age, such a  
sweet little boy. He looks just like Charlie did, like Emily.  
Such a beautiful boy, he had to be one of them, he had to be  
saved -- oh God oh God oh God -- "

Mulder's brain stopped. It felt as though the synapses had  
frozen. All the little chemical and electrical processes in his  
head paused, every thought suspended. He opened his mouth, but  
there were no words.

Her voice faded; she was going away from the phone, and then  
there was a piercing clatter, and Mulder yanked the receiver away  
from his ear.

"Doctor Scully?" Another voice, faint and alarmed, came over the  
line. "Doctor Scully, are you all right?" And then there was  
only the dial tone.

 

***

 

_1:34 p.m.  
November 6_

"Scully -- " His voice broke. He couldn't say the words -- what  
could he say? There were no words that could touch this. He  
pulled her, unresisting, into his arms, wrapped them around her,  
and clung to her in desperation. Her hair still smelled of  
lemons -- she always used lemon shampoo after an autopsy -- and  
he fought back a sudden rush of bile in his throat.

She rested in his arms, soft, quiet, as he'd never known her.  
Even in their closest moments, in the stolen intimacies they  
sometimes found amidst the crazed whirl of events, she had never  
been this passive. After a few moments he released her, leaned  
back to look at her face. And realized that, for her, he wasn't  
even there. Oh, she knew who he was, but she wasn't seeing him  
or feeling him. Nothing could comfort Dana Scully now.

He brought a hand to her face, wiped a tear from her cheek. She  
turned her face away, back towards the altar. She stirred  
restlessly in his grasp. "I need -- Mulder, I need to --" He  
let his hands fall away then, shuffled backwards, trying not to  
catch his feet in the kneelers, until he was in the aisle again.

Scully stumbled to her feet and climbed out of the pew. Oh God,  
he thought suddenly. What can I tell her mother? Her step was  
very soft, tentative; he saw her pause and balance herself  
against an armrest twice on her way towards the altar.

***

_11:23 a.m.  
November 6_

The hallway between the office and the elevator was, as usual,  
cluttered with old cabinets and boxes of files too unimportant  
for the archives but too useful to throw away completely. Mulder  
kicked away a box empty of anything but a broken coffee mug and  
stabbed the call button. There would be no answer on her cell  
phone, he knew; he had to get to her, had to --

The elevator door opened, and Mulder swung through it, his eyes  
blind -- to knock Jerry O'Connor nearly off his feet.  
O'Connor's face was sweaty, and as Mulder reached out to steady  
the other man, Jerry fumbled with the file-folder he was  
clutching in both hands.

"Mulder, I -- " He swallowed, and let go of the file with one  
hand to smear a hand across his face. "Here's the fingerprint  
results. I think you need to see them." Jerry held out the file  
to Mulder, but Mulder couldn't take it; he simply stood with one  
hand on the elevator doorframe, keeping it open. After a moment  
Jerry dropped the file, and as it fell it opened. The thin  
sheets caught the air and floated gently down to land askew on  
the stained brown carpet of the elevator floor.

Jerry put a gentle hand on Mulder's arm and walked out of the  
elevator, looking anywhere but at Mulder. Mulder watched as  
Jerry passed the door to the office and disappeared around the  
corner leading to the fire stairs. The fingerprint analysis  
rustled as Mulder shifted his feet. After a long moment he took  
his hand down, and the elevator doors closed.

All the doors were closed now.

***

_1:36 p.m.  
November 6_

Scully reached the railing before the altar, paused before the  
low gate separating the sacred from the profane. She dropped to  
her knees on the marble. Mulder shook himself into movement and  
leaped forward, but not soon enough to catch his partner's body  
as she slumped onto the floor. Her sobs echoed in the quiet  
church, and the room blurred before him.

Mulder knelt on the cold marble before the altar to a god he  
could not know, and gathered her in. This woman whom he loved as  
his own soul, this woman who was now wreckage. Even with her new  
burdens, she was a light weight, and he stood easily. After a  
long moment in which he pondered the cross above the altar, his  
eyes hooded, he turned and walked down the long aisle towards the  
church doors. Shafts of afternoon sunlight pierced through the  
side windows of the church and striped the carpet like bars.

Sirens were screaming in the distance as Fox Mulder stepped out  
of the vestibule onto the front steps of the church, one last  
victim in his arms.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Many many thanks to Marasmus who told me a year ago that I simply had to finish this. All my love to the unstoppable  
> beta-team: Maria Nicole, Kelly Keil, Alicia K, M. Sebasky, Magdeleine, and JHJ Armstrong. Special credit to Shannono for  
> last-minute corrections.


End file.
